Harry Potter and the Small Dimensional Crisis
by Neverwhere Chaos Mode
Summary: Ingedients: Time Travel. Alternate Dimensions. Seven is a magically powerful mumber. Rampant Cliches. Shaken, not stirred.


Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. If I did, books five and six would be vastly different.

Prologue – The Usual Suspects

He stood silently, ears ringing from the final spell and the havoc it had played, looking around at the rubble and bits and pieces of people here and there.

Harry James Potter gazed listlessly out around Hogwarts grounds as he noted the devastation.

He'd finally done it. He'd hunted down and destroyed the Horcruxes before eliminating Voldemort himself.

But this… this was too much. Too costly. He couldn't possibly accept this kind of victory.

Of course, he hadn't realized that Voldemort's destruction would result in this kind of destruction from the energy released, either.

Dumbledore probably could have told him that, if Snivellous hadn't killed him at the end of last year before fleeing to his master's robes…

Harry spit in derision at the thought of the man's treachery. It didn't matter any more anyhow. Snape was dead, Harry had used a banishing charm to fling him over a balcony in Little Hangleton, impaling the double agent on the spiked rail fence below. It was fitting, he felt, but hardly of any concern to him at the moment…

_Damn._ He was getting off course again. He trembled a bit as he realized that he was responsible for this. He hadn't really been ready for the fight, but he'd come anyway to stop old snake face from tapping into and draining the school's magic. He wasn't sure how it could be done, but the head of the Death Eaters had at least believed it possible himself, and so Harry had come to stop him.

This had to be one of his most spectacular failures. He'd failed Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore, and now the entire school, filled with people.

As he'd thought before, this couldn't stand. It couldn't. Even if for some reason the rest of the world forgave him for this, he would never forgive himself. And the wizarding world forgiving him wasn't likely, given he had just spectacularly killed off pretty much all of Wizarding Britain's children.

It couldn't stand.

He yelled and kicked a stone off into the distance, before he calmed himself a little.

Then, predictably, it began to rain.

Looking around for cover, he spotted a hole in the ground that turned out to be an entrance to the dungeons. Looking through the rooms for a moment, he sighed when he came across a bedroom.

He almost retched and backed out when he realized that it was Slughorn's.

But something caught his eye as he moved to back out.

It was a golden syrupy color, laying on a purple cushion surrounded by a palpable air of magic.

It's that good luck potion… Felix… something. Bah. I was never very good at potions anyways. Could have used it a few hours ago, though.

Then he blinked. Come think of it, he could use a bit of it now. _Help me find a way out of this mess, in any case._

Figuring he'd need all the luck he could get, he downed the entire thing in a single gulp, then leaned back for a moment to let the effects kick in.

He smiled a little as the magical calm of knowing everything would be alright washed over him, knowing that everything would go his way – if only for a little bit.

Standing, he walked over to the potions professor's private bookcase, as if on a whim. He pulled out a dusty old book and looked down at it, and the calm smile became an ecstatic grin.

Everything the Ministry Doesn't Want You to Know about Temporal Manipulation 

Perfect.

----

Harry James Potter had been drinking heavily for a few years now.

No one really blamed him for it, not with what had happened. Another side effect was that he almost never paid for a drink and no bartender would dare throw him out.

He tipped back another bottle of Ogden's Firewhisky, his third in the evening, and stared into the pub's fireplace.

It'd been two years since he'd caught up with Voldemort.

He'd fought the man in a series of running battles, but each time he never seemed to be fast enough to predict which of his friends the monster would strike at next.

It was a pattern, but not one he could really predict. He'd never really been good at that sort of thing. He'd been good at encouraging life, not ending it.

But there were times when a man had to take a stand, he'd told himself at the time. He just couldn't let the monster run around unchecked, it wouldn't be decent.

But the pattern. Voldemort would quietly shield a location, keeping the same signals of 'all is fine, don't worry' streaming out to the monitoring stations, then break in, torture the residents until they were almost dead, and then drop the shields just in time for Harry to come running and let the friends he'd fought tooth and nail for so often in the past die in his arms.

A pattern, but not truly a predicable one, not even when Voldemort confronted his fiancé. The only thing Harry had been certain of was that she would be last in that twisted game, so when it came down to two, he'd immediately gone to camp out in Neville's house.

But the screams had come from her place. They'd both rushed in…

He couldn't bring himself to remember what he saw there. Suffice to say, she was dead, Neville was dead, and he'd destroyed Voldemort…

But not without a little help from the only friend he still had alive.

"SQUEEEK!" _Come on. I found something neato._

Speak of the devil… er, mouse. He glared blearily down at the floor, at the mouse that was almost as famous as he was. "Not now, Munchie. Maybe tomorrow."

The mouse's eyes narrowed, and an eerie golden light began to shine from its eyes. At this, even the most foolhardy patron of the pub got up and at least moved to the other side of the room, while the bartender ducked behind his bar and prayed.

Fortunately, two straight years of heavily drinking had raised Harry's tolerances enough to know the danger signs when he saw them. "Okay, fine. I'm getting up, see?" He got to his feet, wobbled a moment, then steadied. He looked down at the furry little thing as it scampered up his robes to the front pocket where he dived in.

Looking up, the little thing chattered a little. "Sqee-sqee-sqeeka!"

Harry sighed, but grunted in agreement. "Fine. But only until we're on the street – I'm too drunk to drive… apparate. Whatever." His voice slurred slightly as he said it.

Less than an hour later Harry, preceded by a threatening Munchie, barged his way into Horace Slughorn's private room. He looked down at his familiar. "So… what's so… neato, you called it?"

More chattering and squeaks. _On the table, I got it out for you. You'll like it, I promise!_

Shrugging, he walked over to the table and looked at it. He blinked, blinked again, and then started smiling.

Everything the Ministry Doesn't Want You to Know about Temporal Manipulation 

What the hell.

He was still just about drunk enough to try it.

----

Harry James Potter swore and pushed his glasses up with his free hand, his breaths staring to come in ragged bursts now.

It wouldn't be long now, he knew.

He cursed as a cauldron blew up. Failed again. He destroyed the list.

He could hear the pounding getting louder now, the Inferi had broken into Hogwarts dungeons. _Now,_ he thought bitterly,_ I have even less time._ There were other barriers in place, but he only had perhaps two hours.

He ran hurriedly over to another caudron, wrote down what he was about to do, then placed in another ingredient, only to get yet another explosive reaction where there should have been none.

He growled, but moved quickly to another cauldron. _I almost have it. What am I missing!_

He frowned as he heard another barrier shatter, long before it should have. Then his blood ran cold as his scar stared to ache. _He's here. Personally. Shit._

Then the scar split open with Voldemort's glee and blood dropped into the cauldron. It turned a brilliant white as he brought his hand up to his forehead to stanch the flow. He gaped, but wrote it down. Then he quickly memorized the list of instructions for the potion he'd made.

Voldemort had, somehow, constructed a disease during the first war, a magical plague. Some died, others did not, and still others contracted it but never knew until they dropped dead years later.

For the second, he had improved upon it. All of the deaths it caused reanimated, becoming the hated Inferi. Highly resistant to magic, tireless, and already dead, they had to be dismembered completely. Even if you managed to get an arm off, the magical intelligence would still let it flop around and try to grab you.

He'd searched for the last three years to find the answer. A more competent potions maker might have done so more quickly, but Voldemort had specifically targeted them before unleashing it. But now as he had the cure, it seemed too late. It didn't look like the cavalry would be arriving any time soon.

Looking at the antidote, he grabbed it and downed it. For an instant, his vision blurred, and he felt the potion working within him, fighting off the infection. His thoughts clearing a bit, he frowned.

Voldemort had known he was infected, and as such had appeared to be content to leave him alone until he'd died and risen again. No one else even knew he was working on a cure. Well, no one but…

Oh god no.

He ran to the fireplace in the center and tried to call her. No one could travel through it, for obvious reasons, but calls could be made, which the bastard had taunted him with several times.

He called again and again, but got no answer.

He clenched his eyes shut, trying not to feel anything, then snarled and smashed his fist against the bookcase as he felt even more glee coming from the madman about to break in.

A book fell off and onto his head then, and he bent over to pick it up, hearing Hermione's voice in his head lecturing him about cleanliness of the work place being of vital importance. He froze as he saw the title, and licked his lips in nervousness.

Everything the Ministry Doesn't Want You to Know about Temporal Manipulation 

Glancing up at the doorway, where more sounds could be heard, closer now, he shook his head ruefully.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

----

Harry James Potter swore a blue streak as he paced angrily up and down the dining room at Number Twelve Grimauld Place.

He was angry, beyond angry. He was also saddened with loss, but frankly his pure blind rage was doing a very good job at suppressing it.

After a couple years of trying, he'd done it. He'd succeeded in planting visions in the bastard's mind, just as he had in Harry's. It was a cunning, but ultimately risky plan. Lulled into a false sense of security by the treacherous Snape reassuring his master that he was horrible at occulmancy (an he had been, but things were different now), and was therefore incapable of legimancy, Harry had been able to lure Voldemort into a series of barely lost battles to confirm that Harry was indeed undisciplined enough to be 'accidentally' broadcasting important things through the scar.

It was a perfect trap that had been baited perfectly as well. God Damn Dumbledore!

Yes, the damn deserved capitals. Years of planning down the drain. After the snake had successfully proven he could manipulate Harry and lead him into a trap, killing Sirius, Harry was finally going to turn the tables.

Of course, that was where things had gone wrong. The plan had been perfect, too, and it had been going to plan. It seemed that not telling Dumbledore that had been a foolish mistake. Dumbledore had assumed there was once more a spy among their ranks. As Harry had mastered occulmancy with a fervor after Dumbledore had taught him, he knew that it couldn't be Harry doing it. So Harry had cunningly convinced the headmaster to throw out a false prophecy, and see if Voldemort jumped.

Harry had let it through, but altered what he'd heard with a small twist of his mind, knowing that this was the critical moment. The plan, as he knew it, had ultimately gone off without a hitch. Voldemort was down, and was just about to die when Dumbledore had realized he'd been tricked and brought the cavalry screaming in.

To the rescue. Right.

It was bad enough that Dumbledore had come sprinting in just when Harry was trying to complete the spell to end the bastard forever, but the fact that he had brought her with him in some misguided thought that she needed to be there for him to 'love' and use the power that Voldieshorts knew not? Preposterous. Was the power Voldemort knew not love? Perhaps. But if that was so, then it was his love for her that had prompted him to come up with the plan. He would not risk his precious jewel for anything.

The disruption caused by Dumbledore allowed Voldemort one last shot before Harry's spell, hissing from behind his lips, killed him.

And she'd died from it. Dumbledore should have known better than to bring her there! His lips twisted into a sarcastic sneer. Oh, wait. He wouldn't have known better. That's why I had to change what I heard at the last second in the first place. Incompetent old bastard.

Growling aloud, he decided that just this once, it was okay to let his temper get away from him again. If he needed to bottle up again after this, fine. And woe betide whoever pissed him off the next time.

He stalked to the fireplace and got out the floo powder, before tossing in more than he really needed.

Coming out in the Hog's Head, he didn't even bother to sneer at Aberforth behind the bar before he stalked out moving for the castle.

What he saw there disgusted him. A party. She had died, and Dumbledore was throwing a party. How nice. He marched forward, intent on crashing this little fling and making his wrath known, when he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye.

Looking over, and seeing nothing, he shrugged and started moving towards the doors again, this time at a slower pace. Counting to ten as he did so, he hissed a spell under his breath then turned and looked back where he'd seen the movement, and saw a trail of, to only his vision, brightly lit footsteps going down to the dungeons.

He smirked. An intruder? In Hogwarts?

Now somewhat calmed, he smirked. There was undoubtedly a reporter or three in the great hall with the rest of them, and spun right, him catching an intruder in the school under Dumbledore's nose while he celebrated the death of one… no, two, (he had failied Tom as well, hadn't he?.) of his students could make for a fairly damning article.

A perfect revenge. Maybe he could even get the old man out of office for this.

Quickly but quietly following the glowing footsteps, he arched a brow at seeing them come to a halt outside the potions master's quarters. Not that there is a potions master at the moment.

Wand out, and voice ready to start hissing, he flung open the door, and his face snarled with glee as the other man spun around.

Harry smirked as he waltzed in. He fingered the flung aside cloak. "Ah, Snape. I'd wondered where my father's invisibility cloak went. Naughty. Now that's something else I'll have to teach you a lesson for."

Snape sneered back. "You couldn't teach me anything, Potter."

Harry shrugged, not letting the smirk drop. "Well, I couldn't be worse than you."

The duel was over quickly. Too quickly for Snape to fire off a curse, actually. Harry had hissed a command to the snake on Snape's dark mark, and the man toppled over, dead.

A little puzzled at why the man had even been here at all, though, Harry searched him thoroughly. He found a book.

Everything the Ministry Doesn't Want You to Know about Temporal Manipulation

He arched an eyebrow, then grabbed the book and left immediately, thoughts of revenge gone.

This ought to work out nicely.

----

Harry James Potter was, in a word, bored.

Really bored.

His position as one of the top Aurors was irritating, mostly. The office usually worked around him to get things done. They assigned him a case, then quietly leaked it to the press exactly what case he was working on.

Then the culprit usually turned himself in the next day. Occasionally, only the stolen merchandise would show up, or something to similar effect given the circumstances of the crime. Then he got a bit of fun as he tracked the man down, but there was only so much of that to be had, as usually those guys were so busy panicking that the Harry Potter was gunning for them, that they completely forgot to try and hide from him.

Longest chase he'd been on in the last three years lasted a week, and that was only because the guy had a heart attack, died, and rolled into a fire. It had seemed at the time, that the guy had simply vanished into thin air. Harry had actually been getting excited at the prospect of a long chase before he'd noted something off about the ashes in the room he'd tracked the man to.

All this, and they still wouldn't let him have a secretary. Though he supposed that he understood, given the fiasco the first, and only, time they'd agreed to let him try and get one. The next morning over two hundred buxom witches had crowded the entryway to the ministry of magic, thinking that they were being hired for a somewhat different 'position'.

It wasn't that Harry was opposed to buxom witches, quite the opposite, really, but he'd actually wanted a secretary for work related purposes. Specifically, if they were going to give him bogus assignments, he just wanted to let someone else deal with them, and inform him if the usual 'oh crap, Potter's after me, better turn myself in quick' option didn't turn out. There was some awfully boring paperwork involved with that that he really didn't like to get into.

He absently flexed his gauze-covered right hand into a fist. Speaking of things I don't like to get into…

But he was bored. He wanted a challenge, some excitement. He wanted to go to place where nobody knew his name. Then maybe could get some excitement.

Or at least a real job, he thought wryly. This just sucks.

He briefly thought of going to America again. Then he decided against it, as the magical side of Las Vegas still hadn't really recovered from the last time he'd taken a vacation there.

That hit-wizard-slash-hooker (he still wasn't sure which was her 'day job') had actually been fairly good (both with magic and with other things). They'd torn up a good three quarters of the city before he brought her down.

All in some quickly conjured boxers, too.

Still, given the usual results of a vacation were vast amounts of property damage, he supposed it wouldn't be the best idea to take a vacation at the moment, even if it would likely net him some excitement.

On the other hand, the whole nobody knowing his name thing had possibilities.

Springing to his feet, he wandered out of his office and down the hall, where he walked down the back stairs and into the basement, where he politely knocked on the door of the Department of Mysteries.

The man who opened the door regarded him with suspicion. "You don't need another mass obliviation, do you Potter?"

Harry blushed slightly; again thinking back to the cover up of the 'Las Vegas Incident', and quickly shook his head. "No. Actually, what can you tell me about moving?"

The man blinked. "As in… changing residences?"

Harry nodded. "Yes. I think I'd like to change the dimension I reside in. Any advice?"

The man smiled warmly at this, and stepped back from the doorway. "Come in, come in. I think we might be able to help you." And indeed he was happy about this. If Potter wanted to leave, they wouldn't have to spend so much time cleaning up after his vacations.

A week later, Harry, the entirety of his belongings and money in his specialized trunk, walked through a portal.

----

Harry James Potter was completely and utterly pissed off, but what remained of the wizarding world was not getting the picture.

Narrowing his eyes in disgust for the vultures around him, he summoned his staff with a mental call. It appeared in his hand in a burst of flame, and slamming the butt end into the ground, sent the reporters and their photographers sailing back.

He had had enough.

Didn't these people understand? Didn't they care?

Two people had died out there on that field. And while two was a paltry number compared to the untold millions that had been killed everywhere else, these were the two people closest to him in all the world, and he didn't have many friends.

Almost none, now, in fact, and none that he could really call close.

He was only thirteen, fourteen in another month, and he had just defeated Voldemort. That was all these people seemed to care about. Once they saw the messy black hair and bright orange eyes, that was all they needed to rush up and start badgering him mercilessly.

And he had had enough.

He'd been contemplating this for several days now, and now seemed an excellent time to decide to implement his final solution to the problem.

Another twitch of the staff, and he was standing at the entrance to the Avenue of Wonders, the biggest wizarding market in all of France. The door opening before him automatically, he strode through, face like a thundercloud, and walked briskly to the relocated main branch of Gringots.

The goblin in front of him read his mood immediately. "How may we help you, Mr. Potter?"

He gave a small smile to the shorter creature. "I need to withdraw the entirety of my accounts, and close them."

The goblin looked aghast. "Has… there been a problem with our service, Mr. Potter?"

Harry shook his head. "No, but there is something wrong with a society that will not give me the peace I need to mourn. I am leaving."

The goblin nodded sadly. "Very well, Mr. Potter. I assume you would like all of the various artifacts, books, and miscellaneous items removed as well?"

Harry nodded. "And sorted as they are removed, as well, if you would."

The goblin again nodded. "That is fine. There will be a small surcharge though."

Harry waved his hand dismissively. "That's fine. When can I expect it to be done."

The goblin considered this. "The sorting will have to be done by hand, so I would say… sometime tomorrow afternoon."

Harry nodded. "I'll be back then."

A flash of flame, and Harry was gone from Gringots. The goblin shook his head sadly at the stupidity of the vast majority of wizards, leading to so many goblin rebellions, and now this, before returning to his appointed tasks.

Harry, for his part, reappeared in the place he had called home for most of his life. Just outside Paris, the completely hidden home had been in the family of his mentor Nicholas Flamel for quite some time. Walking into one of the studies, he pulled out a book on advanced spell theories, and quickly paged to the section on piercing the dimensional barriers.

----

Harry James Potter was worried.

He'd recently dealt Voldemort, or at least his soul, the final blow, if you could call it a blow. The baby that Voldemort had possessed had been an unfortunate loss, but at least Voldemort was gone, and all was well.

Well, all was well if you weren't Harry Potter.

In the summer before his third year, Harry had accidentally turned his Aunt into an over inflated balloon, and released her over Surrey. In the midst of that outrage, he'd run off from home. Upon reaching the Leaky Cauldron, Harry had promptly been apprehended by Aurors for aiding the escape of one Sirius Black.

Harry tightened his fist in rage, a dark mist beginning to coalesce around it. He was interrupted by a wizened old voice behind him.

"Calm yourself, Harry."

Harry nodded, and tried to get himself mostly under control. He was never completely under control – never could be, not a monster like he was, but… well, he got in control of himself as he could. The beast inside still ached to get out, though.

The old man behind him sighed. "It really isn't as bad as it seems. You are not the monster you think you are."

He spun around, pitch black eyes glittering dangerously. "It isn't! It certainly seems like everyone in the world wants my head on a pike."

The man only offered a smile in return, and Harry calmed again. "I don't."

Harry snorted, and let the anger drain away. "It's not like your word counts for much in the world."

The man returned a wry smile. "It counts for much more than it once did, thanks to you. You more than held up your end of the bargain."

Harry just sighed. "But how long will it last? I'm not exactly politically sound anymore." After the circus Fudge laughably called a trial, Harry had been sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban. It was the old man behind him, living in a small cottage on the edge of the island, who had had him – very quietly – released. The terms were simple. Aid in fighting Voldemort –training, equipment, the works - in exchange for, after the war was over, helping him, Vartus Azkaban, regain control over the island from the Ministry.

The plan had gone off without a hitch, and Harry had destroyed Voldemort, and used his new influence to restore Vartus to his rightful lordship, and for a time, life was good.

But then, someone had found out just how Voldemort had died, and it had all come crashing down. Azkaban was still under Vartus' control, which was currently the only reason Harry was still alive.

He looked back at Vartus, and smiled sadly, and the beast inside him clamored for release. He held it at bay, and spoke. "Destroy me."

Vartus, old as he was, was taken aback. "What?"

Harry's smile stayed sad, but turned a shade tired. "Destroy me. That'll get the world off your back, right? That'll keep them from coming in and destroying us both."

Vartus Azkaban, rightful heir to the Lordship of Azkaban, shook his head. Harry was just shy of fourteen. "No… They'll come either way. I'm an old man. I might die defending my right over this place, but at least it will be mine as I die. You, on the other hand, have plenty of life ahead of you."

Harry's face turned back to annoyance. "Not at the rate the world is going, I don't."

Vartus clenched his eyes tight. He didn't want to see his young friend die. Finally though, he sighed, knowing Harry was right. Sooner or later, even if Vartus didn't kill him, the Ministry would do it for them, but only after showing him off to the world. And then they would dissect him for study. Neither of them could allow it to happen. But then, as a stray thought came to him, he smiled.

"Harry… What do you know about dimensional travel?"

A few days later, a magical explosion rocked the island, and Harry Potter was seen no more… in that dimension.

----

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Order of Merlin First Class, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot jumped up in surprise as almost all of the instruments he had linked to the wards surrounding Four Privet Drive exploded, melted, shot sparks, or simply made ear shattering noises before all went quiet.

He looked at them, shocked for a moment, before he rushed to the fireplace. It took him exceedingly little time to reach Number Four, Privet Drive. Rushing in, he quickly stunned the Dursley's, and rushed upstairs, leaving Abarella Fig to watch over them.

Finding nothing in any of the upstairs bedrooms, he cast a locator charm. It did not function as it should have, bouncing around instead of resolutely pointing towards a target, but it gave the general direction of straight down.

Worried that his efforts were taking too much time, he held up the front of his robes with his hands and began to sprint down the stairs, past Abarella (ignoring her frantic questions), through another floor and down another flight of stairs into the basement.

Upon reaching the basement, he stopped in his tracks. Standing there were a man in his mid twenties, two teenagers roughly the same age, and four ten-soon-to-be-eleven year old boys.

All of whom, despite a couple of… variations… registered to his magical senses as Harry James Potter.

The boys seemed to be in something of a, to use a muggle term he'd once heard, Mexican Standoff, all radiating power, and watching the others carefully. Then, slowly, they all turned to look at him, and he felt distinctly uncomfortable.

Feeling more out of his depth than he had in years, Albus Dumbledore offered the only words that came to mind. "I don't suppose we could step into my office and talk about this?"


End file.
